and from your lips she drew the hallelujah
by dasseinhundin
Summary: "The girl sighs deeply in her sleep, and Kenshin does not think about how her perfume is the first thing he's smelled other than blood since coming to this blighted city." [Bakumatsu-era, micro-drabble series]
1. but you don't really care for music

**This micro-drabble series is based off of the song "Hallelujah", originally performed by Leonard Cohen. Standard disclaimer applies.**

* * *

 **i.**

 _ **But you don't really care for music, do you?**_

* * *

Shishou had taught him the sword, but he had learned how to drink on his own.

The sake is hot down his throat, harsh and copper-tasting. It is reminiscent of the sting of bile as his stomach emptied itself after his first mission, disgusting and guilty and so, so young. Now as he sits tucked away in the corner of the bar clutching a cup with still-small hands, he feels neither guilt nor revulsion; simply a hollow ache and the wine's slow burn.

He listens to the loud, drunken clamor of a couple of men behind him with distanced interest, but his body moves on its own in terrible instinct at the sound of a blade sighing from a sheath. Even now, as he warns the men to flee from Kyoto, from the bloody streets and the miasma of death, the words feel like stones on his tongue; heavy and hard, with just the slightest hint of jagged anger. It bothers him that these men could manage to get a rise out of him, but Kyoto is no place for cowards, and the thought of these two fishing for glory and harassing a young woman in the name of his clan leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

He apologizes mechanically to the restaurant's owner as he turns for the door, trying not to think of the metallic aftertaste of his sake or the sickness that festers inside him.


	2. the minor fall and the major lift

**ii.**

 _ **The minor fall and the major lift**_

* * *

She's warm in his arms.

Kenshin carries the girl with arms that do not shake despite the chilling dread that has curled itself up beneath his ribs, focusing instead on quieting his breaths and quickening his pace. The gravel crunches beneath his sandals as he trudges back to the Kohagiya, mind spinning in circles.

She hadn't screamed.

Somehow, it does not seem strange to him. He looks down at her unconscious form, pale skin freckled with red and cheeks tinted rose from alcohol, and there is an odd sensation of something beginning to move, like a rusted cog groaning back to life. But Kenshin has no patience for superstitions or omens. He has more pressing matters to concern himself with: namely, figuring out what to do with this woman who had seen him bathe in a shower of blood.

The girl sighs deeply in her sleep, and Kenshin does not think about how her perfume is the first thing he's smelled other than blood since coming to this blighted city.


	3. the baffled king composing

**iii.**

 _ **The baffled king composing**_

* * *

She speaks so frankly with him that he doesn't quite know how to interpret it. Tomoe inquires so casually if he plans to kill her that Kenshin needs a moment to process her words and make sure he hadn't misheard her. As he glances up at her from his seat on the sill, he is almost startled by how calm she is.

She asks him with as much expression as a _kokeshi_ doll; a bat of long lashes against pale cheeks, unreadable eyes of sumi ink. The only hint to the weight of her question is the soft click of her chopsticks as she lays them on the tray before her.

His fingers catch on the cotton of his hakama as he answers, hands rubbing idly against his knee in an unusual tell. He explains to her with as much steel as he can that he does not kill without reason, and when she tilts her head to consider his words the smell of blood grows stronger.

"Then, if I had been carrying a sword that night, would you have—?"

Tomoe does not allow him time to reel, standing and calmly informing him that she will be awaiting his answer. Kenshin is left with the distinct sensation that he has just been given a sort of test.

 _If I had been carrying a sword…_

Kenshin rubs his eyes with tired fingers and thinks of her calm, expectant eyes. Somehow, he's sure he's failed.


	4. her beauty in the moonlight

**iv.**

 _ **Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you**_

* * *

Even though his hands are raw, he does not stop scrubbing them until he catches the scent of white plum blossoms. He glances up from beneath sweat-matted bangs to catch her eye as she drifts past the doorway, eyes still dark and deep and questioning. Her words from weeks ago echo in his head.

 _If I had been carrying a sword that night, would you have—_

She looks away and continues down the hall, leaving him alone to continue his ritual cleansing. Kenshin does not move again for a long time after, until his fingers prune and his knuckles sting. But when the blood is scrubbed from his flesh and the memory of his target is but a faint pink tint of the water, he remembers her eyes and feels dirty.


	5. She broke your throne and cut your hair

**v.**

 _ **She broke your throne and she cut your hair**_

* * *

His hand shakes around the hilt of his sword, breath coming in uneasy, adrenaline-laced wisps. Any closer and he would have—Kenshin squeezes his eyes shut and stifles out an apology, but the words feel garbled in his mouth like clumps of crumbling sand.

He expects her to run, expects her to shout, expects anything other than the gentle weight of her shawl draping across his lap and the gentle cadence of her words.

"Let me stay here a while." She says.

Kenshin clutches at the soft lilac fabric as if it is his only anchor to sanity, and breathes deeply.

 _If I had been carrying a sword…_

He realizes his answer when he smells her perfume, and when she does not scream.


	6. i used to live alone before i knew you

**vi.**

 _ **I used to live alone before I knew you**_

* * *

She stays up late, a shadow draped against the delicate paper of the privacy screen. Some nights he falls asleep to the quiet sighs of her brush against the paper. Some nights he stays up and watches the way the candle's light flickers across the ceiling. Some nights she does not go to her bed until very late. Some nights she does not go to her bed at all.

But no matter what the nights hold for them, he always wakes to the smell of tea, the warmth of her shawl, and a quiet, kind, _"Good morning."_

 _It doesn't have to be for show._

That is what he told her. And while she does not smile, her eyes soften when he comments on the sunrise, and he knows the distance is closing.


End file.
